I had been trailing the small herd for nearly a week. The lead doe slipping between the trees at the edge of the shooting lane, obscuring her vitals every few steps and never stopping long enough to draw a clear bead. I had seen her weeks prior on my cameras, a matriarch leading her small band of younger does: yearlings and two fawns. Six in all.
I watched the line drawn by the deer making their way from thick cover to a grazing area just shy of 80 yards from where I set my stand. This stand has been my primary platform for harvesting deer over the last couple of years. Most of them taken from or near the very tree I hung from that day.
The lead doe was canny, smart. Well aware of the dangers lurking nearby, she kept herself alert and light of step. Her entourage was less keen to presence of predators, especially the fawns, frolicking from time to time in the open area at the bottom of the hill, within clear range of my rifle.
Perhaps something tipped her off; the hushed squeak of my boots on the foot rest or a whiff of my scent that I covered as best I could.
No one knows what they sense, but when they do, they rarely stay put.
Off she went, a few quick steps and she was in the thickets at the far edge of the clearing... and 15 yards from a fence row I knew they frequently crossed. Behind her some of the older does caught the cue and started after while the fawns, distracted by their games, moved further away.
The last opportunity was one older doe that seemed torn between leaving the fawns and staying put. She may have been a young mother, or just inexperienced at how to react to ensure the safety of her and the rest of the group.
But her indecision cost her. With a careful pull, I let loose a round, bead fixed on the vitals at 85 yards.
She vertical leap was awkward, a clean hit. But her reflexes took her quickly into the thickets and beyond the fence row. I tracked her in the waning hours of light. The blood thick and red, marking the trail like road signs. In no rush, I made my way along the path, alert to any possibility there was another doe nearby or that she hadn't yet expired, all the way to the fence row. There the trail ended. Neither to the north or south along the row or to the east across the wide pasture. It simply vanished.
At this point, doubts and second thoughts begin to swarm. But the reality was, I hadn't gain permission to be on the property where the trail seemed to lead.
She was lost.
Coyotes were on the cameras for the next three days, moving along the blood trail. My suspicions all but confirmed that she was now fodder for lesser predators.
When hunting, you can pack in almost anything you need. From weapons to safety equipment to furniture, yes furniture. Today's hunter can choose to be as minimalist or indulgent as they choose with what they bring. But the goal is always the same, to pack out with a suitable and ethical harvest, whether buck or doe.
We don't have that luxury in life. We can't choose what we bring into the hunt when we are born and when we leave this earth, we leave it all behind - body included.
But regrets and guilt are the greatest weights a person can carry through life. The "should'ves, could'ves, would'ves" can be crushing. The "why did or didn't I's" can be overwhelming.
My brother passed a few weeks past. He packed out. Permanently. But when that time comes, there is no "leave no trace" option. He left a wide and long mark on his community and family. Through his passing I was united with family I never knew I truly had. We came together and shared in the memories that his life shaped in those around him. Like the blood trail, we marveled at all the points along the way where he gave of himself for others. And like that doe, he crossed a boundary we can't cross...not yet.
The doe fed scavengers and predators alike, all because of the shot I made. Right or wrong, I took the shot and I lost the deer. I can choose to regret the pull of the trigger or the guilt of losing her to elements beyond my control. Regardless, in life we can only pack in what we're given, but we can gain even more during the journey.
This where the boot meets the trail. he chose to go through life giving what could be given. He wasn't trying to be noticed, but he wasn't living in stealth mode. He recognized choices have consequences and I'm certain he was aware of how final those consequences could be as his heart failed to continue to beat.
What he packed in was genuine. Genuine love and compassion. Charisma was never far from him, but it wasn't his identity. He never hung his hat on what he could accomplish with a roguish smile or witty turn of phrase. In this he recognized the fleeting value of such things. What mattered was legacy.
What he packed out was a legacy that reached hundreds and drew us all together in a most unexpected way. Certainly his absence is noticed, felt daily. And yet through his passing many have been fed with inspiration, with encouragement even in the wake of grief and loss.
There will be a time to cross that boundary and we most likely won't have a say in it. It will simply stand before us like that fence row and then we'll find ourselves on the other side. May our legacy be more than the sum of our regrets, may it be more than guilt.
